Saturday, April 16, 2011

I don't like to write these things down, but I do it anyway. Maybe its therapeutic, but I have my doubts. This pen is like a leech draining my thoughts onto paper. And by the time four lines of what I think or feel is scribbled unevenly across college-ruled lines, my thought breaks and my feelings ebb away.

I wish I didn't have to use something to write with. So much gets lost in translation as my thoughts run down the back of my neck, across my right shoulder, and down my arm to the tips of my fingers that hold this dollar-store pen. Wouldn't it be nice to feel and think and have those thoughts, as they were meant to be, just appear on the page? But that doesn't happen.

I worry that by the time my thoughts have reached the crevice of my elbow that they are no longer my own. They have been diluted so thoroughly that they barely exist anymore--like homeopathy at 30x. They become catered to the ones that might someday read my thoughts and feelings. I can't explain it. Maybe my pure, undiluted thoughts would be harmful or fatal if swallowed, and my subconscious knows that. Maybe that's why they change as they run their course from cortex to cuticle.

I want to tell you what I really think and feel without it killing you. Things would be much easier if you could just read my mind; if you could get to those thoughts before I have time to put them down on paper and ruin them. I wonder what you would think of me. I worry about what you would know of me.

I'm convinced that you wouldn't love me if you knew everything. Only God can know everything and still love. But for some reason I still want you to know. You can love so much and you don't know it yet. But not enough.

I don't like to write these things down. It isn't honest. The effort is, but the result isn't. The ends betray my means.